


Then and Now

by Quillori



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8365294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quillori/pseuds/Quillori
Summary: From some points of view, things have hardly changed at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deepdarkwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/gifts).



The fire burns steadily, warm and bright, driving the chill out of the old stone and banishing the darkness outside the narrow windows. Everything about the room is comfortable, well-chosen: the stone may be old, and roughly hewn, but the carpet, the chairs, the bed, are beautifully made, pleasing to the eye and convenient to use. But then it should be comfortable - it is a room for waiting. They do not call it that, of course, but that is what it is: a room for women to await their lovers, their husbands, their sons, for young girls to await their fathers, their brothers, all the men who go far away to fight. Sometimes there is nothing left to wait for but the long, dark-clad, dutiful days of widowhood, and the grave beyond; sometimes the wait is short, and the reunion joyful, but there is always more waiting ahead, and this is the way it has always been, time out of mind.

But today the fire is bright, and no ghosts of old sorrows haunt the room, no echo of those who waited in centuries past. Today there is laughter, and games in front of the fire; today the little desk (which by day looks out across the valley towards endless mountains, but now is turned inwards, facing the dancing fire) - today that little desk is not for long, sad letters, or private diaries, but ‘Look, father, see what I learned while you were away’.

***

The air in spring is still cold, bearing the promise of late snow, but already there are touches of green, and the stark, dead branches of winter are returning again to life. They walk together, husband and young wife, an unruly gaggle of dogs yelping around them. Here and there an early flower has dared to open: he stoops to pick one, and fixes it in her hair. They walk on together, hand in hand, and neither looks up at the fortress above them, impregnable, uncompromising and as near eternal as any man-made thing they’ve seen.

***

‘Mine!’

‘No, mine!’

The sound of laughter echoes up the stairs as the girls tussle, playful as puppies, although they’re old enough by far for dignity and restraint. She won’t call them to order, though … not just yet. They make such a charming pair, and even when they quarrel, it’s light-hearted, a game - they are always, at heart, on each other’s side. She misses her own sisters at times - not often, not when the spring flowers carpet the hillside with a sudden brilliance she knows they would have admired, not when she’s worn out with care and worry and longs for someone to reassure her - not times it would make sense, but randomly, suddenly remembering a joke they used to share, or the way they’d curl up together in one bed on the coldest nights, or just the way that one of them would wrinkle her nose, the precise colour of the other’s hair. It’s good her own girls have got each other, and perhaps, in time, as they get older, and she is less their mother and more their friend … perhaps she will cease to miss her childhood home, her family, and be content.

***

Tonight there is no fire burning in the grate, but otherwise the room is much the same: the stone unchanged, the little desk (a little dusty now it is not in constant use), the valley view. It is still a place for waiting, though the wars are long over: the moonlight pours in and the room itself seems to wait, holding itself in readiness for the time when people will return, when it will again be full of life.

Although it is late in the season, a light blanket of new snow has fallen, and by the light of the moon the castle and the valley below are monochrome: stark black, white, the smudgy grey of shadows. It would take a sharp eye to spot the little, gaily coloured flowers which here and there have bloomed, braving the uncertain spring weather. Where the dew has fallen, and frozen, they are trapped in ice, the deep colour of their petals the only spots of colour: blood red, deep purple, scarlet. They are perfect, the little flowers, untouched and unwilting, with no chance to brown and droop, never losing their colour and their beauty. So long as they do remain untouched: it is an easy thing to shatter a flower, if you freeze it first.

They curl up together, the three of them, and tell stories - things they have seen, people they have found, the quaint ways of the villagers. They do not mind waiting - why should they, when the three of them are together? No sisters could have been closer or better matched - even when they quarrelled, fighting over some choice tidbit, it was only a game. 

The dust likes thick upon the bed - and what is dust but ashes of lovers long since dead, and the flowers of springs long past, the bones of soldiers who fell in some long forgotten war? The dust lies thick, and seems to stir a little, as though the moonlight disturbed it, as though it too would dance, as the snowflakes falling past the window dance in the cold night air. Once, long ago, there were grand parties here, musicians and dancing and the thrum of life. Well, there is life here still, even if it comes less often and lasts less long. Only the other night the room was full of life, and no doubt it will be again tomorrow, or next week, or next month - a child, an unwary hunter, a foolish traveller … there is always someone, and they are used to waiting.


End file.
